Contract Termination - a Titanfall Story
by Katsuhiro
Summary: Welcome to The Outlands. Come for the profit, stay for the adventure.
1. Chapter 1

There was a giant in the cave, silent and alone.

The strongest light came from the fizzling, bubbling spit of a welding torch. The only other sound was the droning hiss of a waterfall, somewhere distant.

The man's face was hidden behind the welding mask, inscrutable as he set about the task at hand. The giant dwarfed him, suspended in the centre of the chamber by a series of muscular, mechanical tether hooks. They grasped the giants shoulders as an eagle grasps its prey.

Damaged actuator, right arm. That was this morning's job.

The man's corded arms were exposed, wholly ignorant of the chill. Scars criss-crossed them. Burn marks, winged shots, a jagged scar where a blade had punctured the skin just below the shoulder. Arno Gibson has proved a hard man to hit, harder still to kill.

The giant's scars run deeper. Underlit by spot lights affixed to the cavern walls, it presented a broad, hulking visage. The giant was a Titan. Atlas-Class. 25 feet of killing war machine. A boxy, lumbering brute, with a spherical head embedded in its battered torso. Designation EZ-4281, "Easy" for short.

Pockmarks dimple EZ's bodywork, just beneath the faded designation script. Its white flank was charred with several ugly scorches where platework had melted together, warping from intense, concentrated heat. The insignia across the chest was faded, all but hidden beneath a chalky layer of soot. The left arm was simply gone, trailing a series of limp wires that dangled freely.

That would be next week's job.

Calloused hands worked smoothly. The process was meditative to Arno Gibson. EZ's sensor lights remained dark. His AI Core was long dormant. Battery reserves had all but flat-lined six months prior. Arno missed his Titan's company, however limited it could be for conversation.

It was a question of credits. Arno was a contract soldier, had been since his eighteenth birthday. Born in the Core Worlds, he had been training and fighting most of his adult life. First serving in the White Jackets of the 405th, then early acceptance into the IMC's Pilot Academy after that shitshow on Prospero Four, three years later. Full Pilot Combat Certification by his twenty first birthday. Impeccable grades. The future had seemed so bright.

Arno dug in with an oversized set of pliers: his hands disappearing into a cratered impact wound deeper than his wrists. A lot had changed since Demeter.

Arno had been one of several hundred new pilots drafted in The Frontier War. Elite line operators tasked with suppressing and containing the rogue Militia forces. Special forces for hire. Contracts had been plentiful, the renumeration substantial. EZ was but one of the many trophies he acquired in the battles that followed.

Arno grunted as he hunted by touch alone. There, a lump of metal, foreign to EZ's hull. The scans had been right.

Eventually, he plucked out the misshapen, compacted remains of an old bullet, extracting it with a fierce tug and a dark chuckle. It was the size of a fully clenched fist. He pushed the welding visor up, rising to his feet as he examined the bullet, twisting it in the dim half-light. Trying to place it.

The Yuma System, perhaps? Or Minerva, the year before?

Arno wasn't sure. Days had folded into weeks here, and weeks into months. Resources were limited, out here in his sorry bolthole, far off in the arse end of the Outlands. But there was work to do. Countless wounds, poorly healed. He traced his gloved hands across hull, probing it with a fondness born from gratitude. EZ had saved him countless times, and paid for it dearly. Here, bubbled scoring, from a glancing laser battery. There, a buckled shoulder plate, from an impact so harsh Arno himself still felt it in his bones. He could still make out the imprint of the enemy Titan's knuckles.

The cavern was a vast chamber, one of a thousand caves interwoven throughout the valley. There was no civilisation for a hundred miles. Still, Arno was a cautious man. A lifetime of training has left him with an appreciation for the finer points of precaution. Sensors littered the surrounding passageways. Everything from infrared sensors to rows of empty ration cans bundled together by simple string.

Arno's ear twitched at the distant sound. The faintest rattle. Sound carried here.

The pliers hit the grille work of the deck with a clang. The welding visor soon followed.

Arno Gibson was already moving.

* * *

Arno watched them from the darkness high above. He was sleeved in his armoured Pilot suit now, feet braced against the passage walls. His helmet lights were dark. The Jump Kit cinched around his waist lay inert for now, all but hidden in the gloom. He had no weapon beyond a simple data knife.

The fireteam move with impressive diligence, single file along the narrow passageway. Tight drill work, even spread. Only a momentary clumsiness had betrayed their presence. Standard fireteam: four men, all told. R201s and Arc Grenades, supported by a light support weapon. Nervous, by the body language. _Right to be_, Arno thought.

Line infantry, unaided by automated units. Not an isolated unit. There would be more.

Sure enough, his wrist unit pinged. Sensor alarms, in chambers four and seven. Then three and nine, moments later. Alarms began to hoot, the sound distorted by the shifting tunnels.

The fireteam flinched, looking about uncertainly.

Their leader growled at them, and they resumed their advance.

Arno knew the terrain well enough to know the game plan. A platoon strength, judging by the number of contacts detected.

They were boxing him in.

Arno slipped free of his perch. Freefall, soundless.

Until he landed. By the time the Jump Kit flared it was too late. His elbow connected with squad leaders throat with a solid thump. The man collapsed, gasping. The point man spun on his feet, eyes wide as Arno's helmet flared to life.

"Shit! He's here, he's here! Contact! Contact!"

Years of gene therapy and honed muscle memory kicked in. Once more, the Pilot went to work.

Arno's visor crunched into the trooper's face, dropping him. He snatched a sidearm from the falling man's chest holster, spinning into a crouch. The pistol barked twice in the dark, echoing throughout the winding caves. The remaining two men crashed to the cavern floor.

Arno rose smoothly to his feet, sweeping. Four targets down. They would find EZ soon. Relocate, reposition. Re-engage.

_"Enough."_

The filtered voice cut through the dark. Arno snapped to bear on the source of the sound.

Another Pilot stepped forth from the shadows, shimmering as the cloaking field dissipated. Unlike the fallen troopers, she too was dressed in the ivory white of an IMC contractor, albeit stripped of any insignia. Both of her legs were cybernetics.

She already had a bead on him. Spitfire LMG. Just about the right level of hurt to paint him across a cavern wall.

"I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of disabling the charge you planted throughout the cave network. Paranoid, even by your exacting standards, Gibson."

"Blair." The pistol didn't budge. "Thought you cashed out on Leviathan."

"Contract expired, not me." Blair's eventually lowered her weapon. The movement carried with it the tinniest mechanical whine of servos. "Not all of me, at any rate."

Eventually, Arno lowered his own weapon, pulse still racing. Adrenal conditioning wasn't something you just switched off.

The troopers on the ground groaned as they writhed on the floor. Precise gunshots to the thigh and shoulder. The aim was too deliberate to be an accident. Blaire raised an eyebrow as she stepped over them, nonplussed.

"You left them alive. Losing your appetite?"

Arno shrugged expansively as he tucked the pistol into an empty holster on his hip.

"Give me a job, I'll show you a corpse."

"Good…" Blair chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder as she strolled past, her voice drifting against the high cavern ceiling.

"…Because we're hiring."


	2. Chapter 2

"Jesus."

Blair stood before the Titan, hands planted on her cybernetic hips. Arno stood behind her, keenly aware of being surrounded on all sides by Militia infantry. In any other situation this would be a shoot-out, and a decidedly one-sided one at that.

Blair had never been a looker. Tough, no nonsense: as small and mean as the fast-attack rigs she so often favoured. Without her helmet, her face was a mask of fused burn tissue or stiff replacement skin-graft, waxen in pallor.

"Your Titan's seen better days."

Arno's eyes flitted to the mechanical legs Blair perched on. He simply flashed his eyebrows, once.

Blair chuckled darkly.

"Yeah, well at least I still _function_. Different world now, Gibs. Can't just dump materiél all over a planet's surface and hope it works out. Have to stretch resources that extra bit further. What was it Graves used to say?"

"'More with less'." Arno quoted without enthusiasm.

"More with less, that was it." Blair nodded. "Well Militia's no different in that regard. IMC are on the backfoot. But it's precarious. Demeter wasn't a clean win. Lot of shortages: gaps in the line…"

Arno's eyes narrowed.

"Never figured you for a recruiter, Blair."

"I'm not. I'm a broker now. Contractual work, same as ever. Strictly on a paying basis."

Arno snorted as he plopped his helmet on a nearby work bench, absently scratching at his neck. IMC serial numbers stencilled their way across his skin, just above the collar-line.

"You can't afford me."

"No, but my employer can. Strictly independent, promise."

Arno raised an eyebrow at that. The cavern was swamped with Militia infantry, the majority of whom were fixing Arno with glares strong enough to strip a shield layer.

"Really?"

"Militia _affiliated_, but a private enterprise, yes."

Something told him Blair wasn't quite telling him the whole story. Still, curiosity got the better of him.

"Go on, I'm listening. What's the package?"

"A working Titan, for starters." Blair hooker her thumbs in her webbing, cocking her head to one side. "Unless you want to start listing hermetic Cave Dweller on your list of notable skills."

"I quite happen to enjoy hermetic cave-dwelling." Arno sniffed, though not quite able to hide a smirk. "So what are you offering?"

She named the price. Then the sign-on bonus. Then the performance related top-ups. A hush fell over the assembled Militia present. Idealists or not, most Militia infantry received an annual salary. Arno's sign-on fee alone was more than they would make in five.

Even Arno gave a low whistle.

"That's a lot of money."

"You have skills, experience. The IMC are competitive, we get that. Not too many Combat Certified Pilots with your record. My employer recognises talent, and pays accordingly."

"And who _is_ this mysterious employer, exactly?"

Blair met his eyes directly.

"Tachyon Logistics."

"_Tachyon?_" Arno blinked. "The _shipping_ company?"

Blair smiled patiently as she corrected him. Only half of her face moved.

"The shipping _conglomerate_ with its own Jump Gate rights, media network and private security force. These men here with me today? Militia trained, sure. But fed, clothed and paid for by Tachyon credits."

"Are the IMC aware that one of their own affiliates is secretly funding the insurgency?"

"Not just Tachyon. Core Worlds are starving, Gibs. Shareholders are uneasy. Doesn't matter whether it's IMC or Frontier holding the keys to the new world. What matters is stability. Many disagree with the IMC's approach. Privately, of course."

"Fair enough. So why me?"

"Because I need safe pair of hands. Lot of new names on the roster. Known unknowns. Everyone else is either committed to a side or KIA. You're one of the few left I can trust."

"Appreciate the sentiment."

"Spare me the appreciation and give me an answer, Gibs. You in?"

Arno squinted up at EZ-4281; at the scabbed bodywork and chipping paint. Batteries were all but flat-lined. Ammo reserves were depleted. Targeting system was fried. None of this would be cheap to fix.

Poker face aside, Arno's credit reserves were rapidly dwindling.

Besides, he'd spent long enough in a cave.

"Alright Blair." Arno sighed eventually. "I'm in."


	3. Chapter 3

"_Status Report: Situation Critical._

_With the destruction of Demeter, access from the Core Worlds has been severed for the immediate future. IMC forces (force estimates of remaining capital ships and affiliated divisions provided in the enclosed data packet) are cut off from Core-ward support._

_The situation is a precarious one. Fully a quarter of corporate holdings on the Frontier have regressed to a state of lawlessness, or worse: outright insurgent control. The so-called Militia are organising. They are recruiting. Production levels of Auto-Titan and Spectre units have been increased by appropriate levels. The continued use of proxies and independent contractors has been authorised. Itemised receipts will be provided upon completion of our campaign._

_We are the IMC. Rightful owners of the Frontier. _

_We will adapt, we will prevail."_

\- Spyglass, Despatches from the Remnant Fleet

* * *

Rifleman Tom Kelly was having a bad morning. Or was it afternoon? It was hard to tell mid ship-cycle. One stretch of deck resembled the next, whether you dimmed the lights or not: scuffed grille-work and patched ducting was no substitute for a sunset. Quite why he had the mop the deck of a troop carrier still mystified him. Surely an automated unit could do this job. Tom resisted the urge to spit in disgust.

The disorientation wasn't what rankled. It was a question of hierarchy.

Tom was new. No, that wasn't the right term for it. They were _all_ new, after all. Tom was _unseasoned_. Fresh-meat, as Captain Merrow so often liked to crow. Tom had never served with a salvage team, or ran with a crew. He'd certainly never served time, or fired a weapon in anger.

But whether organisation was new to the Militia or not, there were hierarchies, pre-existing or otherwise. Before Demeter the resistance had been a disparate band of outlaws, smugglers and volunteer homesteaders. Equipment was scavenged or stolen, explosives improvised. Bonds were formed between gangs and crews, rivalries too. A structure of sorts, but a loose and ill-defined one.

Not anymore. Now they were Companies, and Regiments and a thousand other terms Tom still struggled to keep up with. The old, boxed in with the new. Tom was barely eighteen, had lied on his paperwork to get into Basic and out of Angel City a year earlier. No more IMC curfew for him.

Whatever his preconceptions, the Third Company of the 87th Skyborne were not what Tom had been expecting. The vids depicted rugged camaraderie and snatched-victories against faceless corporate hordes. The reality was somewhat less glamorous.

Most of Third Company were fuck-ups. There was no dressing it up: they were the sordid underbelly of the Frontier Militia. Former gangers, criminals and ne'er do wells, herded together and slapped in a uniform. _Raised from the gutter, straight to the Sky_; so went the unofficial motto. _Turd Company_, others sneered, though always with a glance over their shoulder and out of earshot.

The senior men and women of the First and Second Company more closely resembled what Tom had hoped the Militia to be, what he himself aspired to be, but they were few and far between.

Tellingly, none of these officers were stationed here, on the _Yuma Runner_.

The _Runner_ was a Ballast-Class bulk freighter, long past its original service life. To Tom's unpractised eye, it resembled a large, industrial brick. A sorry, ram-shackle thing, the Yuma had been forcibly refitted with all the modern equipment necessary for an orbital dispersal. Titan launchers, orbital drop pods, a new Jump Drive. The cargo racks had been shorn of racking, and instead cleared to make room for an open dispersal bay. The Third Company of the 87th were a hard-contact unit: dog soldiers, intended for surprise dispersal behind enemy lines.

At least, that was the theory. The Third had never been formally deployed on anything beyond simple escort detail. They were an after-thought, an embarrassment to the more accomplished units of the regiment.

This tour was no different. As he dipped the mop in the bucket of brown, cloudy water, Tom Kelly reminded himself that he was at the very bottom of that pecking order.

A hatch opened beside him. A clutch of yelling troopers clomped through, hauling stretchers between them. They were headed for the Medical Bay. Tom only caught snatched glimpses. Hader and Beckett. Gunshot wounds, field dressed but in need of more practiced attention. Sergeant Ritter was with them, his nose and cheeks puffy and swollen. Fussing over all of them was Delara, the corpsman assigned to Second Platoon.

"What happened?" Tom asked as they passed.

"The new hire." Delara snarled distractedly.

Then they were gone, vanishing through the next hatch.

Tom watched them go, the limp mop dripping in his hands.

* * *

The stale air of the Embarkation Deck was like a thousand others Arno Gibson has tasted before. Dry, processed. All the sterility of a shopping mall infused with the oily sweat of a machine shop. Much of the space was dominated by landing craft, dressed in the traditional camouflage of the Militia Forces, adorned with iconography that depicted the number 87 repeatedly. The seven was rendered by a bolt-blue lightning bolt.

Arno felt countless pairs of eyes upon him, from munitions techs to passing lines of drilling infantry. Once more, the IMC serial number across his neck began to itch.

Nine Titans lined the far wall. No two were alike. Most were Atlas-variant combat patterns, though he spotted the occasional Ogre-pattern and a trio of fast attack Stryders. Some were vividly coloured, splashed with lavish nose-art or decorative stencils. EZ was the last in line: battered, proud. The pristine ebony of its hull appeared smoky grey beneath the caked soot and greasy mire of battles past. It bore no flashy insignia otherwise. That was beyond IMC regulation.

While the other Titans were comparatively clean, each of them carried their own dints and scrapes. Military applications aside, Titans had their origins in agricultural and industrial labour. A Titan's inherent durability meant that many rigs were often repurposed salvage from the Titan Wars. Only Hammond Robotics and a select few competitors possessed the capability to engineer fresh Titan designs. Titans would be deployed, blown apart, then reassembled in orbital deployment batteries prior to being redeployed into the fray once more. Titan Salvage was its own entire industry.

This led to inconsistencies. Small little quirks in the behaviour of each re-assembled rig that subtly but manifestly affected the field performance of a given Titan. Arno knew his own Titan like the back of his hand, and it had survived some of the most frenzied battles of the Frontier relatively intact. A sticky actuator, or a visual artefact troubling the target computer in certain climates. You learned to embrace the quirks, wearing the Titan as you would an old glove, or a favourite suit.

Three Titans in particular caught Arno's eye. Industrial loaders, judging by the lack of visible armament and the orange and slate-grey livery. It seemed so strange to see a Titan without a generous amount of killing power strapped to it. These machines were brand new, too. No blemishes, no scrapes. Factory fresh.

Somebody with a lot of credits put this show together.

Tachyon. Arno didn't know much about them. They were IMC affiliated, that much he knew. But then most Frontier companies were. The initial colonisation efforts had been driven by IMC credits, and led by retired IMC personnel availing of the generous demobilisation grants afforded by the G.I. Bill when the Core Wars drew to a close. Most of the old factories and installations that littered the Frontier were IMC property, long abandoned after the first colonial drive. Smaller competitors had emerged in the generations that followed, but still, there was a certain hierarchy to things.

_Not anymore_, _I guess._

Blair led him across the landing deck, stalking forward on whirring servos. The Yuma Runner was preparing for take-off. Technicians hurried to and fro. Klaxons blared, and warning lights flashed. All was commotion.

"Quite the show you're running here." Arno remarked.

"Tachyon have invested a lot in this expedition. The resources we've been allocated are considerable."

"I'll say. Company strength infantry, nine supporting Titan platforms. You've got your own private army." Arno shook his head as another squad of soldiers jogged by. "What was the phrase you used? Strictly independent?"

"Tachyon and the Militia have an understanding. As will your credit balance when the job's done."

"And what _is_ the job, exactly?"

"Asset retrieval. What, where and why are need to know."

"And I don't need to know?"

"You're paid to shoot, Gibs. Stick with what you're good at."

Arno chuckled as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Then can I at least ask where I'm marching with such furious purpose?"

"Pilot Lounge." Blair replied. "It's about time you met your new colleagues."


	4. Chapter 4

"_The Titan platform is ubiquitous, offering utility in multiple sectors: orbital engineering, salvage retrieval, even agriculture. The applications of these walkers are many and widespread. Learning the basics of operating Titan is a common rite of passage for civilians here on the Frontier. But where there are service-industry Titans and their military-grade equivalents, so too are there corresponding differences in those who operate them._

_Classification is key. Not all Pilots are equal. To become Combat-Certified is to become the highest practitioner of warfare on the modern battlefield. Strategy, tactics, direct force application. _

_It has been said that a Pilot sees the battlefield differently. I disagree._

_The Pilot sees precisely what you see. Then they change the outcome."_

\- Graves, Commander of the Six-Four Pilot Company, addressing potential recruits

* * *

The Pilot's Lounge, such as it was called, was really an old Officer's Rec Room, albeit stuffed with the murderous bric-a-brac that tended to follow Pilots around. Weapons lined the walls, customised far beyond factory standard. The main table that dominated the centre of the room was no table at all, but rather than ammo box for an X0-16 Chaingun that had been flipped over and strewn with discarded polystyrene cups and mashed cigarette butts.

The stale reek of tobacco curled Arno's nostrils as he stepped inside.

A single mountain of a man sprawled in a chair that had been plucked from a discarded Titan wreck, one muddied boot planted on the makeshift table. He was no combat Pilot. He had three too many chins, and his straining belt buckle betrayed a fondness for easy living. One of his paws was currently rummaging through a greasy bag of chips, as he crunched, audibly.

Two other specimens occupied the room: a lank male and a desperately skinny woman with a purple mohawk. Both were engrossed in a game of cards and wreathed in smoke. Neither paid them the slightest bit of attention.

The fat man studied the two Pilots under lidded eyes.

"Ma'am." He purred.

Blair didn't miss a beat.

"Kenny."

A blink. Kenny simply waited for Blair to speak.

"Where is everyone?"

"Training Pods, maybe?" A tectonic shrug happened, eventually. "You know the Combat types. Awful twitchy."

Kenny caught Arno's eye. Arno was still dressed in his Pilot hard-suit, his helmet under the crook of his arm.

"No offense, Chief."

"None taken."

Arno and Blair stepped back into the comforting sterility of the corridor.

"_They're_ your Pilots?" Arno seethed.

"Civilian Contractors. We're not M-Cor, or SRS. We're a contracted freelance outfit. That means hired hands, and not factory fresh. This isn't the IMC. We don't get the cream of the crop."

"Cream is the _last _thing that man needs."

"Kenneth Fairborn is A-Rated Commercial handler. His references are impeccable. His work rate too." Blair's eyes flashed. "If the shooting starts that's your job."

"And who _am_ I going to be shooting exactly?"

"With a little luck, _nobody_. But this is the Frontier. Anything can happen." Blair checked her data slate. "You've been billeted a room on Deck Three. Get your gear stowed and grab some shut-eye. We've a long day tomorrow."

* * *

Arno followed the guiding lights to his quarters. The route was a winding and twisting one, and he was glad of the Nav unit buckled to his wrist. Not far now. Another two turns or so.

Questions abounded. Why were Tachyon risking the IMC's wrath to fund Militia soldiers? Why the Outlands? There was nothing here: no auto-factories, no shipyards. No meaningful infrastructure of any kind.

He was still lost in thought when he walked smack into a section of bulkhead.

No, not a bulkhead at all. A robot.

The robot looked him up and down, visibly smarting. Arno returned the favour.

It was a bipedal robot in the approximate shape and ratio of a man, but it was no Spectre. The automated auxiliaries favoured by the IMC had no business being on a Militia ship. Moreover, none of them had a head shaped quite like this one.

There were similarities, certainly: the chassis, the general aesthetic of the plating itself. But this was something more advanced. Two spindly legs terminated in forward swooping running blades. The arms and webbing were patch-worn, and placed in a style more reminiscent of something a human operator would favour. Arno's eyes quickly took in the boxy Jump Kit affixed to the robot's waist.

The robot's head – a vaguely sloping wedge of metal – was defined by a single blue sensor unit that ran along the front and top of its crown. A single crooked antenna rose from the back of its manner of field radios, pouches and combat knives rattled as it folded its arms. Dozens of brand logos stencilled its forearms, like tattoos on a cartoon sailor.

The robot cocked its head in an avian fashion. Studied him.

Then it spoke, and Arno realised it was no robot at all.

"IMC scum." It growled in a digitised male voice. Then it laughed. "Just fuckin' with you Gibs. Long time no see."

Gibson blinked.

"_Renner?" _

"In the flesh." The robot replied, then looked down and chuckled. "Well, kinda."

"Heard you'd retired."

"Got out about the same time you did. Freelance work kept me going. Right until I stepped on a _supposedly _decommissioned landmine on Persephone. Six months and one neural upload later voila! Renner 2.0. Same can-do attitude, new simulacrum prothesis."

Renner added a flex for effect.

Arno shook his head. Aidan Renner had crossed paths with Arno a number of times in the Frontier. A recon specialist with an addiction to high risk operations, it seemed only fitting for Renner to favour a comprehensive digital restoration over traditional medical procedures. One of the Strykers in the hangar bay was undoubtedly his.

"Always looking for that next adventure, eh?"

"Damn straight. It's the Frontier! Still getting used to chassis, and when a milk run like this was suggested I said why not?"

"And what kind of milk run is this, exactly?"

Servos whined as Renner shrugged.

"Beyond a promise of time and a certain degree of moral flexibility in exchange for credits and glory, who knows? Who_ cares_. Work is work. We're not IMC anymore, Gibs. Gotta take each job as it comes."

"And the rest of the crew?"

Another shrug.

"Freelancers. Pod warriors for the most part, looking to get some dirt under their nails before the inevitable SRS application, but they've the basics down."

Renner glanced over his shoulder, the gesture rendered all the more human precisely because he was anything but. His voice now a conspiratorial whisper:

"Truth be told, I'm more worried about the Grunts Blair has us paired with. Wasn't a whole while ago we were slaughterin' 'em wholesale for an annual bonus. Watch your back."

"No argument there."

Renner nodded, then clapped him on the shoulder. Arno winced slightly.

"General briefing is at 06:00 – we'll be making the Jump shortly thereafter. Get some shut-eye."

Renner was already halfway up the corridor when he paused. "And Gibs? Welcome aboard. Good to see a familiar face."

Arno managed a bemused smile back at the slender android.

"Yeah, you too."

* * *

Tom Kelly joined the rest of his fireteam in the mess hall.

The first to spot him was Garcia, known for his bulky muscularity and sailor mouth: two qualities cherished in any automatic rifleman.

"Yo Irish." Garcia bellowed. "Get that deck clean yet? Industrious fucks like you got the MRVNs worried about job security."

"Go fuck yourself, Garce." Tom grinned as he sat down. Garcia cackled and they bumped knuckles.

"Hear the news?" Noam asked. A solemn faced man with a wiry frame and olive skin. Noam was furiously stabbing at the slab of protein on his tray, mashing it but never quite committing to a bite. "We're up."

"Really?" Tom asked.

"Amber status confirmed. General make-ready order." The food stabbing intensified. "That means line duty. Real action."

"Great. Might not have to scrub any more decks."

"Gotta give the MRVN's a break, TK." Garcia still wore a toothy grin.

"Once again: go fuck yourself, Garce."

Tom looked further along the bench and saw the junior NCO's clumped together at the top of the long table, heads bowed as they murmured amongst themselves. The same conversation was repeating all over the ship, whispered in quiet huddles on every deck.

A long awaited deployment. Danger. Adventure._ Action._

"Looks pretty serious, huh?" Garcia furled his lip as he picked at his tray.

"Looks that way." Tom nodded.

"Suits me man." Garcia took a drink. "Been all dressed up with nowhere to go. 'Bout time we earned our pay."

"Why is it _we're_ always the last to find out?" Tom asked.

"Because we're _infantry_." Noam scowled, finally taking a bite. "But I'll tell you this much for free: you don't send ten Titans and an entire company of riflemen halfway across the Frontier for a goddamn milk run."


	5. Chapter 5

"_The Frontier takes its name from the high concentration of habitable worlds within relatively close proximity of one another. It is worth noting that close proximity is a relative term, in an astrophysical sense. Jump Drive technology pre-empts the organisational challenges of relativity, but trips between habitable systems can still take weeks, even months. This presents logistical challenges. _

_Physical ones too. Jump Reversion can be a discomfiting, to the uninitiated. Many may experience nausea, or a prolonged sensation of vertigo. Psychological symptoms include bouts of anxiety and a lingering sense of déjà vu._

_Because of this, and the resulting operational impact on a serving crew or military task-force, it is considered standard operating procedure to brief all forces prior to initiating Jump Sequence."_

Warfare and Logistics on the Frontier, Third Edition

* * *

Arno Gibson awoke in the dark, to the sound of a chiming beep. An envelope icon pulsed on the wall of the cramped cabin. It occurred to Arno that he had never seen an actual envelope before.

Arno wasn't sure how the Militia operated, but the IMC preferred contractor-specific data packets: customised and refined by A.I. handlers on a bespoke basis. Need to know, but here's your job. Do it. Do it well. Get paid.

Then Arno remembered that this was Tachyon's show, not the Militia's. Nothing was certain.

He swung his bare feet onto the icy deck, rolling his neck with a crack.

"Play message." Arno croaked, rubbing at his eyes.

"Identify." The icon flashed red stubbornly.

Arno fixed it with a withering glare.

"Pilot Arno Gibson. Serial Number: 302329-CR."

The icon flushed a verdant green.

"Pilot, report to Titan Bay." Droned a female synthetic voice overlaid on the Tachyon Logo. "Finalise mandatory equipment and calibration tests prior to final Jump Sequence."

The message ended.

Tachyon, it seemed, favoured brevity.

* * *

The practicalities of briefing over two hundred grunts on a cramped box carrier in transit meant a single large scale briefing was out of the question. Section by section, the platoons of Third Company were rustled together: gathering in loading bays and storage containers that now served as converted mass billets.

Second Platoon dwelled in the very back of the ship, in a cramped cargo hold just beyond the reactor drives. The constant thrumming in the deck had caused innumerable headaches at first. Agricultural equipment had once filled the hold. Tom could still smell the fertiliser.

"Second Platoon, form up!"

There was a clatter of military boots as Tom and the others assembled. It was early ship cycle, yet everyone was dressed in uniform. Garcia was to Tom's left, Noam to his right. Curling breath misted over their heads.

The reason for their being present and accounted for was singular: Lieutenant Nyugen held command of Second Platoon. Reed thin and tough as a whip, his face was a dispassionate mask as cold eyes flitted from one soldier to the next.

Nyugen had run with Merrow's gang before the regiment's founding, had taken them from embryonic enlistees to the proper, though untested, soldiers they were today.

Nyugen an aversion to lofty speeches. If he spoke, it was to bark orders. This may have been on account of his raspy voice, which tended to grate and carried poorly in crowds. The burn mark across his throat was never explained, but speculation was rife.

Some said it was from a Spectre attack in yet another Angel City lockdown, others said it was a chemical burn from a ruptured drive core during his smuggling days. It didn't matter. What mattered was that Second Platoon were ruthlessly disciplined, and Nyugen held the leash.

That suited Tom. You knew where you stood with the man. He'd seen the alternatives throughout Third Company. Lax discipline, frequent brawls and petty thieving. Better the devil you knew, in Tom's view.

No speeches this time. After a final withering glare, Nyugen simply nodded the order and the medics shuffled forward to their respective squads; passing from trooper to trooper as they pressed medical injectors to each soldier's neck in turn.

"Sorry TK." Murmured Gideon, one of the medics when it was Tom's turn. "This might smart a bit."

"No problem Doc."

Tom winced as the injector nipped his neck.

Nanite infusion. A heady mixture of pre-emptive stimulants designed to boost a trooper's auto-immune system. The Frontier worlds featured all manner of biomes; none necessarily lethal, but the regs were there for a reason. Early theaters in the Titan Wars had seen entire divisions wracked by outbreaks of hives and pox, as alien fauna wreaked havoc among the rank and file. The last thing you wanted in a combat zone was dysentery.

Tom coughed as Gideon moved on to the next in line.

Tom's eyes began to water, his body shuddering involuntarily. Still, he managed. Better a momentary discomfort than a week of stomach cramps and shitting liquid courtesy of some new and exotic alien pollen.

The men awaited further briefing. None was forthcoming.

Nyugen merely scowled.

"Gear up. Final Jump in one hour."

* * *

The Pilots assembled in corridor leading to the Titan Bay.

Ten Pilots, including Blair and the three civilian handlers. Renner was the only familiar face. The rest were children.

Well, that was perhaps unfair. They had the requisite Jump Kits, the taut, corded musculature that spoke of advanced Pilot training. But they had never seen combat.

Gibson could tell because of the uniform stares he drew. There was no hardness to them, no killer edge. They played at being cool and aloof, but every movement he made was watched, every step analysed with nervous tension. Arno Gibson was everything they had trained to fight, had grown up fearing in the various homesteads and colonies that had raised them. A Core Worlds Killer, without pity or remorse.

Arno paid them no heed. The only Militia Pilots worth respecting were the Special Recon Squadron, the Militia's home brand of special forces. These were no SRS. These were hired hands, cow-pokes playing at Pilot.

Closest to him was a short Asian girl, her hair tied back in a no-nonsense bob. Arno was almost double her height. She winced when the medic zapped her neck with the shot.

"What's the matter Ikumi; does it sting?"

"Don't make me stab you, Godric." Ikumi growled, rubbing her neck.

Godric was a goliath. Either Maori or Pacific Islander, Arno wasn't sure. The Jump Kit was of a design normally reserved for heavy weapon specialists or Spectre snipers, such was his size. Tribal tattoos sleeved both his arms. For all his brawny strength, there was a paunch to him, a softness unbecoming of a Pilot. He took his shot without complaint.

Gibson was next. He kept his eyes levelled on the deck. His eye twitched as the medic depressed the injector against his skin. The medic froze at the next Pilot in line, brow furrowed.

Renner's full-body prosthesis stared back at her.

"What can I say?" Renner uttered a chuckle as he rapped his metallic torso twice. "Low maintenance."

* * *

Tom and the rest of Second Platoon geared up. They shrugged on ballistic jackets and buckled chin straps, shake testing gear after shrugging on backpacks. Militia infantry favoured moulded black hard tops and digital camouflage. There was the snick of clasps being fastened and sidearms being examined. No two soldiers were quite alike; stencilled as each man or woman's helmet was with all manner of profanity and crude sketches. Most marked their blood type on two sections on their body - whether on knee plates or etched on the side of helmets.

Some men kissed rosary beads or tucked lucky dice into their pockets, careful not to be caught by Nguygen's piercing stare.

Tom left his ballistic goggles dangling around his neck as he buckled on additional combat webbing. Two grenades, a field knife and canteen. Flashlight and compass, all the tools needed to survive on the savage frontier. Swaddled as he was in his field gear and backpack, he felt the air grow hot around him. Nyugen barked and they marched out in single file, tromping for the armoury. Tom kept his eyes fixed on the back of Garcia's helmet.

They filed into the armoury. It was a long, chrome chamber, its ceiling an intestinal warren of snaking pipework. Mechanical auto-racks unfurled from the walls with a descending chatter.

Tom was a Class-3 Rifleman, the smallest and lowliest cog in the Militia Machine. That did not mean he was toothless.

The R201 Assault Rifle was a compact design, intended for modular customisation. Lightweight, reliable and capable – there were harder hitting weapons throughout the Platoon, from L-Star energy repeaters to the monstrous Spitfire LMG Garcia lugged about, but the R201 formed the backbone of a Frontier fighting unit. Magazines for the weapon found their way into corresponding pouches affixed to his body armour, just over two hundred rounds. Further field supply would likely be unnecessary, this far out in the Outlands. Or so he hoped.

Tom's rifle sat on a strap that let the weapon sit barrel down towards the deck. He cinched a holster to his right thigh, fastening in his side-arm, the boxy yet reliable P2016. Tom took a deep breath. He could still move pretty quickly, loaded up as he was, but there was a definite added heft to each booted step he took.

Klaxons blared. The next group of soldiers was due. Second Platoon filed out the far side of the chamber, warriors ants filing from the hive.

The Jump Sequence would only take place once the troopers were loaded into their transport ships. Protocol required that any transitioning starship be combat ready for any potential hot zone in advance of arrival.

The chrome sterility of the Armoury gave way to the yawning openness of the Hangar Bay.

Dropships awaited them, loading hatches wide. Crew members ushered them on, waving glow sticks.

Tom went on auto-pilot, sweating under the high bay lighting as Second Platoon hauled ass across the open deck. Something caught his eye.

A row of Titans across the far end of the dispersal bay. Giant behemoths, ready for war.

Tom was still gawking when Noam slammed into him from behind.

"Keep it moving, TK!" Noam laughed, giving him a shove. "It's showtime!"

* * *

Arno Gibson clambered up the side of his Titan, finding each handhold with practiced ease. The Titan was in standby, the AI core inert. Gibson pressed his gloved hand to the side of the armoured plating, allowing the Titan's passive systems to read his biometrics. The front of the Titan peeled apart, and he settled into the worn leather Pilot chair with a low chuckle. The seat was moulded to his back, The hatch interlocked once more, sealing him into darkness.

Gibson took a breath, tasting the air even through his filtered helmet. He gripped the control sticks, caressing the dormant triggers. He could reach every switch blindfolded. Any combat Pilot could. This served as ritual of sorts, a form of meditation. He took one last quiet breath.

Then flicked a switch.

The HUD shuddered into life, the AI awoke from long dormancy. The visual display pulsed into life, transposing a transparent view through the Titan's thick armour plating. One of the sections failed to start immediately. Gibson banged the side of the hull with a fist, and it sprang to life.

"Welcome back Pilot." EZ 4281 boomed, the Titan's deep voice a bass purr. "It has been nineteen months, six days, four hours and thirteen seconds since we last spoke."

"Good to be back, EZ. Give me a Systems Report."

"Systems Green. Armament Green. LADAR G—"

The HUD flushed red. Alarms hooted.

"WARNING: Hostile Militia Forces detected. Pilot, we are surrounded." EZ bristled as the Titan reared up, causing the restraining arms to groan in protest. "Missile pods online. Calculating firing solutions. Standby!"

Arno swore and took control, snapping on the safety toggle of the Titan's weapon suite. The XO16 Chaingun swung erratically up and down as Gibson tore control from EZ's ingrained reflexes.

Everyone in the Titan Bay was staring at them, from the tech crews to the lowliest MRVN. Many had dove for cover. The other Titans were scrambling to get online.

"Easy now, Big Guy. Easy." Gibson cooed, stroking the display monitor as if it were an irate guard dog, "Friendlies. All Friendlies."

EZ straightened, slowly relaxing. The restraining arms seemed to sigh in relief, and the crew along with them.

"Mission Parameters have changed?" The Titan inquired.

"New contract, new employer. Synching data packet now."

Gibson's helmet HUD dimmed as he uploaded to EZ's

"Processing." A pause, before EZ continued. "Parameters logged. Objection: limited mission data available. I have many questions, Pilot."

"You and me both, buddy." Arno sighed, as he settled back in the Titan chair. "You and me both."

Blair's face appeared on the com tab on the HUD. Her helm had an open visor, that did nothing to hide the scowl on her face.

"Problem, Gibson?"

"Yaya, minor teething problems Ma'am." Gibson's fingers danced across the various switches across the top of the cockpit as he cycled through the emergency checklist. "EZ thought he might do some redecorating. It's under control."

"Good. You're with me and Renner on this drop. Front and centre."

"Understood Ma'am. Following your lead."

Blair nodded, then vanished. Her voice played out on the intra-Titan wideband.

"All Units, brace for Jump Sequence. In Five, Four, Three…"

Every muscle in Gibson's body tensed. That old familiar tendril of fear wormed its way through his belly. Gibson swallowed, gripping the control sticks tight.

"Two, one…"

The air itself crackled and tingled, as the hairs stood on Gibson's arms and EZ's instrumentation begin to fray with fizzling static.

Then there was a jolting shimmer, and darkness.


End file.
